Summer of Strays

The **dog** appeared on the third day of what my mom called "finding ourselves" — aka, her and Dad taking a "break" while I got shipped off to Abuela's house in the middle of nowhere.

He was this scrawny golden thing with ribs showing through matted fur, hovering near Abuela's fence like he wasn't sure if he belonged anywhere. Kinda like me, honestly.

"Don't name it," Abuela said, setting down a plate of sliced **papaya** she'd picked from the tree in the backyard. "He'll leave. Everything does."

The papaya tasted weird at first — soft and musky-sweet, like something I should hate but couldn't stop eating. That was kind of the whole summer.

By week two, I'd named him Lucky. Because irony, right?

I'd sneak him food and sit with him behind the garage, spilling my guts about how my best friend ghosted me after I moved schools, how I was pretty sure my parents were lying about the "trial separation," how I felt like a fraud in my own life. Lucky just listened with those soulful brown eyes, no judgment.

Then came the **fox**.

I saw it at dusk — all sharp angles and rust-colored sleekness, moving through the backyard with this quiet confidence. It kept its distance, watching me and Lucky from the edge of the woods. Wild and untouchable.

"That's life, mija," Abuela said when I told her. "Some things you tame. Some things you just watch and appreciate from afar."

The fox never came close. But every evening, I'd see it, and it felt like this secret between us — this understanding that some creatures aren't meant to be caught.

Lucky stayed. The fox kept its distance. And the papaya? I actually started craving it.

"See?" Abuela said one morning as I ate papaya with Lucky at my feet. "Some things stay."

Maybe she was right. Maybe some things don't leave.